The Luck of Eragon Dragonrider
by awilla the hun
Summary: My own attempt at re writing Eragon, in a decidedly odd way: attempting to do it in a 19th century style of writing, with occasional differences in plot, character and so on, with the occasional references to such works. Enjoy!
1. Part the First

Many Eragon fans have tried this, and now it is my turn: how they would have written Eragon. Reviews would be appreciated, for I expect that this is going to be an extremely weird attempt at attempting Mister Paolini's work: in the style of 19th century fiction. There will be a few minor changes in plot and backstory, but they are all for the greater good of a decent piece of work.

And now, without further ado… I give you, ladies and gentlemen, _The Luck of Eragon Dragonrider_

Part the First: In Which the Story is Introduced, and an Ambush is Set and Made

Arya's father, like many members of the elven gentry of the time, was in to the profession of the courtier. It is without a doubt that he would have become a much esteemed figure in this, were it not for him being killed in a duel over the untimely death of some horses. Arya herself was often given to thinking about this event in future years; often coming to the conclusion that it was indeed odd how such an insignificant action could lead to the fate of Alagesia being altered in a most curious manner.

It was not, however, until a period of several months after the duel that Arya knew about his death, for she was riding, along a road between copses of pine trees, in the company of two gentlemen of the military profession. They went by the names of Faolin and Glenwig, and were respectively tall and dark haired, and shorter and somewhat paler of complexion. The party travelled armed, for the area was known to be of a nature becoming to the highwayman, the rogue, and the brigand.

This was to be proven in a most barbarous manner, for behind the cover of several of the trees lurked a man of most savage aspect and nature. He was tall, pale of face, and clad in a long, dark cape which was of uncommonly fine material; indeed, his clothing spoke of a life of former wealth and prosperity. His boots were made of leather which, were it not for the mud of the trail, would have done credit to the royal guard, and his scabbard, which contained a long, thin blade, was elegantly tooled with golden thread. The body beneath the clothing, however, was utterly skeletal, and the eyes black, the pupils having long expanded into the whites. The man, in short, resembled a corpse, given liberty to walk, speak and act, and his name was Durza.

Durza watched as the three elves walked their horses down the carefully chosen road. He smiled, showing teeth filed down to points, for the road was as good an ambush site as any he had yet seen. It twisted through several bluffs of appreciable height, which were perfect locations to position archers, and was narrow, making retreat difficult. But even then, he knew, the ambush would not necessarily be a success, for elven skill at arms was well known throughout Alagesia.

Which was why he would deny them this. He drew the sword from the tooled scabbard, wrinkled his nose in elegant distaste at the long scratch down the blade, and turned to the man on his left. "Morzanson," he said, in a strange, cold voice, "you may signal the attack. And remember," he added as an afterthought, "do not let the girl escape. D'you understand that? I've paid you enough, by gods, so you'd best do so. And pray stop those brutes from despoiling her or anything."

"Why, sir?" the other man asked. He was clad in a hooded grey cloak, which obscured his face, and was also armed; a long, hand and a half sword was on his back.

Durza thought for a moment about phrasing his answer, for it was a matter of delicacy. "She has something," he said, "that I require. It is a fragile something, I think, and not something to be stamped on by brutes with meat axes."

The man called Morzanson nodded, and strung his longbow, which he drew and shot into the sky above him. "Charge!" he called. Upon this, a great roar was let up from the tree line, as a large body of urgals poured down it at the elves, brandishing flint spears and, in a few cases, bows. An Urgal was a large, brutish creature, with ash grey skin and long, curved horns upon the head, which was often heavy browed and red eyed. The specimens making their attack upon the elves were around six feet in height, and of substantial physique.

The elves stared, panic stricken for a brief moment, but then many long years of training made good itself upon them. The two male elves drew swords and spurred towards the urgals. Their blades rose and fell, hacking into the grey mass around them. For a moment, it appeared to be the case that they would hold against their foes, but their defiance was shortly ended with a volley of arrows and a brutal cheer from the urgals, for Faolin and Glenwig lay quite dead upon the ground.

At this, Arya lept from her horse, attempting to tear her sword from its scabbard. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of her friends being shot from their saddles, and she let out one anguished cry, before turning and running into the forest. At this, Durza let out another hiss, and gave chase, shouldering his way through the Urgals still on the road and pounding after her.

Although the pursuit was never described in any history books, it would be of great consequence for those within it and, indeed, the wider world of Alagesia itself. It was initially to the advantage of Arya, for she was a runner of abnormal skill, even for the elves, and she proved exceptionally dexterous through the woodland terrain; effortlessly leaping over roots and ducking branches. It was with difficulty that Durza even kept the elf in sight, but it was all that he required.

For, whilst running, he was slowly chanting under his breath, a long series of words which would, to a human of common breeding, sound at best gibberish, at worst make the ears bleed. After one final line, he ran his thumb down his sword, causing dark blood to run down it. He raised the blade, which was now glowing like fire, and pointed it at Arya. He gave a triumphant smile, and gave a look at the pouch that the girl was wearing. It would be his!

Which was now being held up by the elf. She shouted a world in turn, and the pouch, in a great flash of light, vanished. She then collapsed, in apparent exhaustion from her efforts.

Durza let up a great howl of rage, before reasserting himself. After carrying out the necessary action of killing the Urgals with his sword, still afire from the enchantments, he departed with Morzanson, himself on the elf's horse, the grey cloaked man on foot. It was often thus, and Morzanson didn't especially mind the arrangement, for it was an exceedingly lucrative one.

"It was in the reign of Galbatorix that the aforesaid personalities lived and quarrelled, good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now"


	2. Part the Second

(Trust me, from this point on, chapters will start to become more substantial. I shall also try to improve my 19th century impersonation, which for now is causing Thackeray and Austen to roll in their graves. This is probably going to resembl Penny Dreadfuls-or, more likely, parodies of Penny Dreadfuls-rather than literature…)

Part 2: In Which Our Hero, in the Midst of a Hunting Trip, Has A Brace of Meetings Which he Is Unlikely to Forget

Our narrative now shifts to the view of one Eragon, a young lad whose disposition is greatly inclined towards the noble sports of life: notably, those of archery and hunting, and it is to his great misfortune that, as a farmer's son, it is he who has to do much of the labour. He is, however, not a man easily given to melancholy; when one is heavily engaged in hard work, as he has been oft given to saying, it is difficult to be so. He had, prior to the beginning of his adventures, been much given to the virtues of hard work, obedience, and thrift, and had therefore won a no shortage of acclaim from his peers: notably, Garrow, his Uncle and guardian, and Roran, his cousin. This is also due to his notable ability with the longbow; when winters have proven long and extreme in hardship, as they often did in the Spine Mountains, it meant that Eragon was much relied upon as a source of food from deer, rabbits, and other creatures of the mountains.

It is on such an outing that our story begins. It was a fine, clear day, in such a manner as is oft the case after a night of storm. When before thunder had rumbled across the mountains and snow sheeted down, filling the air with a whiteness that was almost oppressive in nature, was now an air of serene calm. Birds tentatively poked heads out of nests and, seeing that, to use the vernacular, the coast was clear, they began to sing. Trees which had been torn down over the night now played host to rabbits and suchlike. The sun shone down, providing some scant warmth to the proceedings, and, more to the importance to Eragon, allowing him sufficient light to adequately line up his shot at a deer.

It was a doe, he reckoned. A doe, of small size, but still sufficient to feed his family. He drew an arrow from the arrow bag in a well practiced motion, and sited down the shaft, before drawing the bowstring back to his ear and loosing the arrow. The arrow buzzed through the air, and the deer fell, the shaft protruding from its throat.

Much of the rest of the day was spent attempting to skin the deer, which Eragon did with a not unreasonable competence, and occasionally taking bites out of the loaf he had taken for sustenance. His business done, he fell, gratefully, into slumber.

He was then awakened, somewhat rudely, by the point of a sword being held to his belly. "Good morning to you, sir," said a cheerful voice in an accent which was not known to Eragon.

Who began to curse, loudly and at great length, in response. "D—n you!" he cried. "Where the b--y hell was my b--y watchdog? How could I have been so b--g well stupid not to take one? D—n!"

And so on, and so forth.

Eventually, the cursing died down, and the man continued. "I very much apologise for putting you through this, young sir, but you appear to have been fouling the air with a most dreadful racket." He bowed ironically, and stepped back into a patch of moonlight, revealing himself to be a short, plump gentleman, with a three cornered hat and mask firmly on his head.

"A highwayman!" Eragon crowed, shrinking away in his terror.

"Not exactly, son, seeing as we are not as such near to a highway," the man said, still smiling in a manner most genial. "But that is true in essence."

"Why, you scoundrel!" Eragon cried, "you fiend- Why, you-"

"Enough of that, young sir," the highwayman said, reaching up to adjust unseen spectacles. "We must now move on to a next level of our acquaintance. To wit, the exact reason why I, kindly soul as I am, took stroll into the Spine with a view towards relieving unsuspecting huntsmen of heavy loads- notably, those of copper coins and potential meat. I must admit that am an easily suggestible fellow, you see, and just looking at that huge steaming pile of venison, with nary a guard in sight- well, it just got my stomach grumbling, if you would get my drift."

His speech, whilst exceedingly elegant, was swiftly cut off when Eragon revealed that he had not been entirely idle by springing at him with his hunting knife drawn. With a punch and a kick, the highwayman lay sprawling on the ground, relieved of a fully intact nose. With a snarl, clambered to his feet and hurled himself at Eragon, who smartly stepped back and demonstrated the immense superiority of the Spine's style of boxing to that of the Highwayman's native land. Having turned the tables on the ruffian, he made good his escape, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

Unlike the escapade previously mentioned in this novella, the hero managed to outpace his assailant by a high margin. After several minutes of hard, fast running, he stopped to take stock of his position and surroundings. These did not provide much solace, for they were indeed desperate; in his rush to get away, Eragon had managed to leave behind his pack, which contained food, spare coins, bow, and his venison. All he had, in fact, was his knife, which was only ever going to be of limited use. He was, in short, alone, in cold, bleak mountains, without food or much ability to catch it, or fire and ability to make it.

It was going to be difficult, he concluded, to make his way out of the Spine.

Therefore, concluding that it was hopeless to continue, Eragon sat down upon a rock, feeling horribly alone. The cold, winds and so on began to set in. With these various distractions, along with the general feelings of cold and the bite of the wind, that Eragon took several minutes to realise that he had spotted no such rock in the area where he now sat.

He stood, looked down, and saw what appeared to be a stone. A blue stone, which gave appearance that it would not be disadvantageous to keep and sell for profit.

With this new motivation lending zest to Eragon's efforts, he set off again, on foot, determinedly trying to get out of the Spine.

"It was in the reign of Galbatorix that the aforesaid personalities lived and quarrelled, good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now"


	3. Part the Third

Thank you for your reviews, Koma and Elvenstar. They have proven to be as helpful as could be expected. The reason as to why I am writing this charming picaresque tale of youthful adventure is, quite frankly, that this site needs some variety in the Eragon section. So, there will be Eragon, Brom, Murtagh, Durza, and the gang, written in a style that can, at best, be described as "distinctive" (for this site), getting into all sorts of scrapes. There will, however, be no OOC Sue Riders, American slang, lists of how to annoy characters, or any of the tropes which have wormed their way into practically every other Eragon fic.

Chapter 3: In Which a Brief, but Alas Necessary Diversion is Made From the Plot, by Way of a Story Teller, in Order to Ascertain the History of Alagesia, and a Certain Quantity of Geography is Revealed.

The first dwelling that Eragon caught sight of, whilst making his long march to Carvahall (for that was the name of the town where he intended to arrive) was not that of one of the townsfolk, which was a minor disappointment to him, but that of the local doctor. This gentleman went by the name of Brom, and was reputed to be a skilled man in the trade of healing, for he had managed, with reasonable success, to keep both human and animal fit and ready for whatever forms of work that they may be required to undertake. It was perhaps inevitable that, working on a nearby farm, with many animals and hands, Eragon would have the misfortune to require his services.

Whilst Eragon did not count Brom amongst the closest of friends, the two of them had developed a not unreasonable level of respect for one another. Eragon reasoned to himself that, perhaps more importantly, Brom was not the kind of man to throw a cold, hungry traveller out into the snow, so he squared his shoulders, and marched up to the front door.

Brom, in a manner similar to his house, looked somewhat old fashioned, and worn after many years of usage, but was warm and hospitable. "What the devil would you be here for?" he growled after stumping his way over, the familiar oaken walking cane tapping on the floorboards.

Eragon gave the justifiable opinion that he could be more talkative after a hot meal, mug of tea, and perhaps a good night's sleep.

After these first two were supplied, with Brom's normal standards of high quantities of heat and low of quality, he began to question Eragon. His manner was fairly normal in Eragon's experience: a certain tone that suggested a noble past, often interspersed with the lighting and usage of an ornately carved pipe. After a few minutes, he had managed to relate the circumstances of his sorry misadventures, and was approaching the finding of the stone.

"And then," he said, laughing ruefully at the circumstances in which he had made his discovery, "I suddenly realised that I was sitting on something which I hadn't noticed. So I stood up, and found it." He paused dramatically, as he was often wont to do.

"Found what, sir?" Brom asked. A more perceptive man than Eragon would have noted a sudden change in the doctor's demeanour, a change of posture and a sudden note of anticipation in his voice. But our hero, tired from his endeavours, cheerfully related that he had positioned his posterior atop a large stone.

"Would it be possible," Brom asked leaning ever further forwards across the table, "for you to produce this stone, sir?"

Eragon gave a slightly confused answer in the positive.

"Pray let us peruse it, sir," Brom said. Eragon staggered over to the small pantry which took up much of Brom's kitchen, and after much rummaging and muttering, produced the stone. It was laid down onto the table with a satisfying thump. Brom disappeared from the room, and presently reappeared with a certain amount of evidence suggesting a past in the career of a jeweller. This, Eragon reasoned, was quite possible; from the old fashioned white beard and numerous wrinkles, he had always had the appearance of a man of advanced years, who could have quite possibly had several careers in a long and prosperous life.

Brom then proceeded to make use of his equipment on the stone. This, whilst most likely interesting to a gentleman of his trade, made a case for Eragon to get a brief rest. This, when added to his general tiredness and the rigors of the night, added to it, so he was much bemused at being shaken awake after what seemed mere moments of slumber.

"Tell me, dear boy," a voice said to him, "what d'you know of the dragon riders?"

It took a moment for Eragon to realise that it was Brom who was talking, another to dimly register the morning light flooding through the open shutters, and a third to realise the strange nature of the question. After a certain amount deliberation, he gave his answer.

"As much as the next man," said he. This meaning, of course, that he knew the general myths of their deeds, and of their downfall, concerning King Galbatorix, Dragon Marshal Vrael, and several, regrettably nameless figures. At this point, Brom sighed in a manner suggesting exasperation, and hefted one of his five books from what appeared to be an old sea chest. He cleared his throat, and began to read.

"It would require a great philosopher and historian to decipher the causes of the Glorious War against the Elves (as it was so called by historians at the time) but it would suffice to say that Galbatorix, his so called "Forsworn" allied riders, and the Kingdom of Surda were allies, against the Elves, the Dwarves, the Broddering States, and the Riders. The results of it were the overturn and annihilation of the old riders and dragons, the unification of the Broddering States (formerly Hessaria, Brodlund, Teirmio, Delatierre, and Katar), and the ascension of King Galbatorix to the throne of the newly formed "United Broddering States."

The book continued thus for some minutes, without delving into details; Eragon would later learn that this was a mere introduction to a far larger work, albeit hopefully not written in such a dry and dull manner.

Eventually, Brom slammed the book shut, turned to Eragon, and said "Do you comprehend where this conversation is leading, sir?"

Eragon conveyed the opinion that he had no such knowledge.

Brom sighed. "Curse your brains, sir, or whatever matter lies between those over sized ears of yours! Have you been even listening to what I have been telling you?"

Eragon, somewhat bemused at the oversizedness of his ears, shook his head.

"Did you fall asleep when I was telling the tale of the attempt to construct more eggs?"

After analysing his memories, Eragon concluded that this must be the case.

"Damn it, sir!" Brom suddenly leaned forward, face to face with Eragon. The boy blinked with surprise. "I shall now put it to you, sir, in a manner which, whilst blunt, does not require allegory too advanced for you to understand." He took a breath, for he had been shouting by the end of the sentence. "There is another egg, sir. That egg is right in this house, you brought it in, and we must leave. Now."

"It was in the reign of Galbatorix that the aforesaid personalities lived and quarrelled, good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now"

((Good to leave it on a cliffhanger…))


End file.
